


what it is to burn

by msmaj



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Smut, and a nice solid sprinkling of angst, and did I mention the smut?, are these feelings?, more like exes tolerating each other for the greater good, think more DragonLance than GoT, to nonstop sexy times, to oh shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28120380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmaj/pseuds/msmaj
Summary: To a group of Syrpents, biding their time in the peaceful capital of Eldervair, springtime is usually met with slower than usual training and preparation for the upcoming sowing. When unexpected faces show up along with those vernal winds, Jughead, and his friends, are forced to reevaluate everything they know about the state of the world. And learn just how much of himself he's willing to sacrifice to fight the multiple battles set on him by the fates.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 26
Kudos: 32
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Any smut you find in this chapter will be italicized, so if you see those slanted lines and that's not your scene, keep on scrolling!

At last the kingdom of Eldervair exists peacefully after centuries of unrest and uprising. Many years of aid and services from the Alemid and Nereglade principalities have made the region prosperous and powerful once again. In fact, the entirety of the Shadowlands are routinely traveled to from far and wide for scholarly pursuit, magical rendering, and above all, the high art of dragoneering. 

Long envied by her sister cities, Eldervair boasts the largest number of dragons in the entire realm and has for centuries. The people have always treated the creatures with the reverence they were due and thus were rewarded with the honor to live with them, to learn from them, and most importantly, to fight alongside them. While dragons may choose to live outside of service and the city walls, the majority choose to live amongst the people, under the Citadel or the Regency palace.

Springtime in the scells is much more fun as a Syrpent than as a Wyrm. Wyrms have to do the mucking, trim the talons, and fit the mounts. The Syrpents get to train on dragon back, help clean and remove damaged scales (that kind of trust earns them the scales as tokens to add to their armor), and most importantly, Syrpents get to _fly_. They aren’t lead, not like the Ryders, but with their shields and their spells, they ride into battle behind the wings of the noblest race in all Eldervair. 

The air is warm, heavily scented with the flora of spring dawning as the group of young Syrpents take their meal at Pop’s. The old tavern, nestled into the base of a massive maple tree, has been a staple of Eldervairian life for as long as anyone can remember. A massive hearth burns during the colder months, but now and in the warmer months, long, worn oak tables line the interior. The windows are open, blowing that sweet aroma through the space, kicking up whisps from the dirt floors that make cleaning up the many raucous nights much easier for the elderly staff. 

On this particular Mids-day, the table farthest from the bar is occupied by several newly promoted Syrpents. Jughead Jones, a third of the way through a flagon of mead and his third helping of Pop’s delectable pattied meat, listens to his companions as they grumble through the latest town gossip.

“I didn’t hear anything specific, but I’ve seen those looks before. Council is planning an attack, or defense,” one of the men says, pushing the greasy black hair from his forehead before continuing. “Either way, something’s coming. And nothing I’ve seen portends good things.”

“You think every time the wind changes it’s a sign from the gods, Pea,” Toni rolls her eyes and takes a long swig of her ale. Her head shakes as he prattles on, pink hair tied back in an intricate plait that barely moves with the rest of her. 

“I don’t want to do this—and by that I mean agree with Sweet Pea—but I don’t think he’s entirely wrong this time,” Fangs leans in, elbows on the table as he takes a measured look around him and begins again more quietly. “Did any of you happen to notice how many scells were cleared and prepped this morning?”

Jughead sits up, leaning in slightly as his utensils dully thud against the table. “It’s spring cleaning. This happens every year.”

“They get _cleaned_ , yes, but prepared for occupation? No. I saw Wyrms filling them with down mats, woolen blankets, and stocking the firepits! They don’t do that shit unless there are going to be dragons in them. That means dragons are coming here and quartering. Which also means that—”

“Ryders?” Jughead asks. He had noticed the compound was bustling with a bit more activity than usual as of late, but in his mind, it was just war games. It’s only ever war games. At random points in the year, the Council would enact attack measures to test the voracity and preparedness of the vanguard. It always seemed to begin much like this, but they had never physically prepared for more Dragoneers before. They’d just pretended like they were there. If they’re provisioning scells, then…

“If they’re bringing in Ryders, that means I’m right, and my intuit is actually intuiting!” Sweet Pea’s excitement is short-lived as a large gust of wind blows through the tavern. 

“Uh, not just any fucking Ryders. Looks like we’ve got lapdogs,” Toni points toward the door where four very imposing figures stand in their full regalia. The Lapidaries, in their armor constructed of intricately laid gemstone colored dragonscales, are the highest brigade of Ryders in the land. They’re also almost always political appointees or the children of privilege, hence the lapdog moniker. Sure, they have the best mounts, best armor, and best beasts, but they were mostly just for show. They were trained, of course—you couldn’t sally into battle on dragonback without knowing at least a little of what you were doing—but the fact remains that the lapdogs are nothing more than parade fodder. 

Scarlet armor gleams in the sun-flooded space between the door and the bar, theirs the only body moving in the whole place as the other lapdogs stand sentry at the door. Political unit or not, they truly are something to behold.

His eyes fix on the figure farthest left. There’s something about the stance that’s almost familiar, but they’ve likely gone through similar training so he shrugs it off until they move. Just an inch, almost imperceptible, but at that moment Jughead had never seen so many shades of green in his life. The way the scales move with the form they cover and the glow of perfect alchemy that shines from the blade of the glaive, if they look this magnificent here in this dingy pub, he wonders what they would look like flitting between the clouds.

“Jug, I’ve got a really bad feeling about this,” Toni whispers.

He turns his head away from the door and back to his friend who’s staring, anxiously and wide-eyed, in the direction of the bar. She’s taken on a slightly greenish sheen herself, the golden hue of her skin looking more and more sickly by the minute. Flashing his eyes back to where hers can’t look away, he sees the visor on the Ruby Ryder’s helm raise, catches glimpses of red underneath the helmet too, and instantly knows why Toni looks the way she does.

“Please tell me that’s not who I think it is,” he says just as quietly, eyes darting back to the table when he sees the barhand point in their general direction. The sound of the visor going back down fills the stilted air with an uncomfortable metal screech, followed by the sound of several pairs of booted feet. 

Sweet Pea’s eyes go wide when he realizes they’re the intended recipients of the lapdogs’ inquiry. “Guess my intuit is still off.”

“That is the understatement of the millennia, friend," Toni manages to get out before the squadron stops right behind him. 

“Syrpents,” a familiar voice calls out coolly. “Her Regency has requested the permanent installation of the Lapidaries here in Eldervair.”

Jughead feels the air leave his body as they press in closer, his hand closing tightly around the goblet he’s holding.

“It was also requested,” they pause, the last word spit between teeth as if it was poison, “that we acquire new tandems who we may Dragoneer with. Your group has come most highly recommended.”

“And if we don’t want to fly with the least practiced unit in her Regency’s skies?” Jughead turns in his chair, expecting to be met with the leader, but the Emerald knight stands between them.

“Maybe in days of yore, praeter-Wyrm, but our squad is the most commended, most recognized, and hands down, most well-trained combat Squadron this side of the river!”

“Praeter-Wyrm? Really, Cheryl? That’s going to sway us to want to ride with you?” Toni asks, standing from her end of the table.

A huff comes from behind the red helm while menacingly taloned gloves slip under its edge and slide it free from her body. She shakes out a mane of red hair once it’s off, eyes lingering on Toni. “So much for the big reveal,” Cheryl intones.

“Gods, how dare we spoil such a dramatic entrance?” Toni’s arms cross over her body, head cocking to the side. 

Cheryl smiles, venomous, and saunters over to his friend. “Antoinette. I was so hoping to find you in this hovel. You look well.”

Jughead watches as Toni and Cheryl appraise one another. Years ago, in their youths, the relationship between the two was anything but tumultuous. Now the animosity rolls off them in waves.

“Of course I do, Cheryl. I’m _always_ looking well,” looking every bit the cat who ate the canary, Toni steps forward, infringing on Cheryl’s approach. Sweet Pea and Fangs look on in rapt amusement while Jughead can barely contain his distaste. 

“Can we just cut through whatever screwball mating ritual you two always seem to be engaged in and you tell us what you really want?”

Cheryl opens her mouth to respond but doesn’t tear her eyes away from her prey. “I told you. We need Syrpents. Haven’t you always wanted to be a real Dragoneer, Jones?”

He tastes the blood in his mouth before he realizes his teeth have bitten that deeply into his cheek. “In another life.”

“Look, as charming as this reunion continues not to be,” Jughead turns to see the helm of the purple Ryder slip off. Raven hair swishes around her, sharp eyes looking past him and focusing on Cheryl and Toni, he can’t help but smile. “If these Syrpents don’t want us, I’m sure we can find another able-bodied group to fly with us.” Her eyes rake over the group, displeased, until they land on Sweet Pea who looks even more green than Toni did previously.

“I promise you, Veronica, as much as it pains me to admit, not only are these hoodlums brilliant defensemen, they’re the best casters we’re going to find.”

“Well, she’s right about that,” Fangs says snidely, lifting his glass in agreement. The tallest of the Ryders stalks toward him, the blue armor deepening as they move away from the streams of sunlight. 

“I might be inclined to agree with Veronica. Are they really worth the trouble?” he pulls off his helmet to reveal an inherently mischievous glint in his hazel eyes, gloved fingers scratching through the cropped hair on his scalp as he stops next to Fangs. 

“We most assuredly are, Ryder,” Fangs waggles his eyebrows at the unimpressed man before him, earning several chuckles around the table and the tension that hovers in the air seems to break. At least a little. 

Jughead leans back in his chair, mindful the last Ryder has yet to remove their helm. “I guess that leaves you and me.”

They simply shrug in response. 

“C’mon, don’t you feel like harassing me on the same level of your compatriots?”

Their head shakes.

“Aw, you gonna tell me that unlike the rest of these,” Jughead pauses, looking at the people around him, letting words roll around on his tongue before they settle and scathe and make their way between his lips, “top notch warriors, you actually have a heart?”

“Are you seriously going to let this parcey farmer talk to you like that?” The girl with the dark hair, Veronica, whips around, finger pointing between them.

Surprisingly enough, it’s Cheryl who stops her questioning. With a look that cuts like steel and a quirk of her brow, Veronica is silenced, harrumphing enough in the process she knocks the green Ryder off balance. Against his better judgement, and their every attempt to avoid contact with him, Jughead grabs the figure by the shoulders before they both crash into the table. 

The air is sucked out of him, dimming inside as if a sudden draft blew out the candles. He feels dizzy as he freefalls through his memories, the sickening feeling only abating once he comes to a stop.

_“Juggie, they’re going to be looking for us,” she giggles breathlessly as his lips creep up her neck. The skirts of her dress are rucked up around her waist as she straddles him on the hay bales._

_“Let them look, they won’t find us here,” she glows by the torchlight, already glistening with a sheen of sweat. Her skin is hot, flushed under his lips as they slide up her throat, teeth biting at the sweet spot of flesh below her ear. The subsequent moan she emits and the way she grinds her bare, dripping pussy against the seam of his trousers reminds him just how little he would care if they were discovered._

_Her fingers grip and pull at his lush hair, keeping him close as the press of her naked breasts on his chest is too alluring to resist. One of his hands twines into her hair, holding her firmly in place as his other fingers dance across her form, tracing the curve of her clavicle, down the valley between her breasts, finding their way to the subject of his desire. Fingers, rough and calloused from years of working the scells, find her dusky nipples waiting, pert at his touch. He pinches the flesh, feeling her hiss against his lips._

_“Is this what you want?” He palms her breast in his hand and lowers his head, hot mouth covering her pebbled nipple. He sucks gently, using his teeth when her hand pulls at his hair, soothes the tender flesh with his tongue, and when her breathy moans become too much, he takes his hand from her supple breast and slides it to her wet and waiting core, tapping his long fingers against the soft, downy hairs. “Or did you have something else in mind?”_

_“Yes,” she breathes into the hollow of his throat. “Fuck me with your fingers, caster. I want to feel the power in your hands.”_

_His hips thrust upward as his long digits find themselves buried in the hot slick of her cunt. “Gods, Betts, how are you always this wet?”_

_The noise his hand is making borders on obscene and makes the feeling of her tight, silken walls all the more intense. Two fingers are encased in her heat, stretching and plying before sliding completely in and out as his thumb roughly circles her swollen clit._

_“Fuck, Jug,” she moans as she arches her back, pressing her hips down, seeking more of his touch. “Please.”_

_“Is this how you want to come? Begging for my hands to grant your release?” He slows his thrusting and backs off her clit, swiping it gently only every few seconds. “Should I get down on my knees, lick clean the filth between your legs? Take care of my betters and be your good, little knave,” her mewls change to groans as his fingers slide out of her. “No, there’s no way I’m missing the feeling of your cunny when it comes all over me.”_

_His hand makes quick work of the ties on his trousers, grabbing his shaft and covering it with the remnants of her slick._

_“Fuck me, Jones.”_

_He smiles darkly. “Impatient much?”_

_“I need your cock,” she whines, licking up his throat, hot puffs of breath breaking against the shell of his ear._

_“Is this what you wanted?” The response sticks in her throat as he sinks into her, the base of his cock pressing against her most sensitive spot. He stills for a moment as she adjusts, her legs raising and locking around his waist before he moves. Slowly he starts, building a dangerous pace as his hands fist at her hair and keep her exactly where he wants her. “To be ruined in the mucking scells? Fucked so good that you’re messy and dripping with my cum during the ceremony? Think Mumm and Daad would still be proud if they knew their perfect daughter was begging for my seed?”_

_“Gods, Jug, don’t stop,” she pants hands still wound in his hair, slipping to scratch intricate patterns on the nape of his neck._

_His lips descend on hers, ravenous as she drives her hips into his. He smiles against her flushed skin, the sweat building between them as he picks up the pace. The slap of his skin on hers, the feel of her talon-like nails raking down his back, and the tell-tale flutter of her cunt is the best kind of sensory overload. Pressure coils at the base of his spine. The feeling of her body entwined with his is pleasure. It’s passion._

_It’s rapture in its truest form._

_“Fuck, I’m not gonna last. I have to pull—” he tries to pry himself from her body, but she stays firmly in place, impaled on his cock._

_Betty squeezes him with her pussy, slowly sliding up and down as she grinds her pelvis against his. “No, no, that’s mine,” she laces her fingers behind his neck and slides up so that only the tip of his dick stays inside her. “Every drop of your cum is mine. It’s inside my mouth,” she inches lower. “Or on my tits,” lower still. “Or in my pussy,” she bottoms out on his cock, throwing her head back as his hands come up and grip under her ass._

_“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” his voice sounds raw in his own ears. He tries to hold himself still as she writhes on top of him, just in case…_

_“Fill me up, Juggie,” Betty’s voice steals over him, the heat of her breath on the shell of his ear. Teeth nipping at the lobe, he thrusts up into her, half crazed, mad with lust._

_He feels the heat rise in him, the mix of the sacred and profane, the magic and life that threaten to burst from him. Betty screams when she comes, the tremors starting in her cunt and rippling through the entirety of her body. He takes one more look at her—head thrown back in absolute pleasure, eyes squeezed shut, every inch of her skin covered in grouseflesh._

_Her pink lips are parted, still moaning his name as he pounds into her. Her pussy grips at him, slides slickly over him as the pulsing inside him reaches a fever pitch. He comes hard, hot, strong, like a phoenix flame erupting. Breath coming in pants, he forces the air into his lungs as he looks up and is met with glowing, green eyes._

_“Hi,” she whispers above him, the feeling of their passion still hot and thick between them. She leans down and kisses him with a softness he doesn’t expect, but she tastes like fire._

_And he loves getting burned._

The air, and world, rights itself. Jughead’s arms are splayed across the table, bracing him against the onslaught of memory he’s just endured. Air fills his lungs in broken breaths, tears filling his eyes as they try to focus on the glittering, green helm in front of him. Shaky fingers reach for, and find, the base of his goblet. The digits wrap up and around the stem, pulling it toward him, lager sloshing against the sides as his breathing begins to even out. 

Slowly, with his friends and fellow Dragoneers looking on, he sits up, wipes away the fresh blood that seems to have formed on his lips, and finds the face he’s been so afraid to actually see.

“Elizabeth.”

“Forsythe. You’re looking...” she pauses, pursing her lips together. He thinks he sees a flicker, a remnant of some familiar warmth cross her face but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. The more he thinks on it he’s sure it’s just the light playing tricks on him; she’s steel, not fire. “I have to get back to the scells.” She turns her head toward Cheryl who nods despite the sour pinching of her face. Nodding back in acknowledgment, she turns again—their eyes locking for just a moment, a tumult of emotion storming in her eyes—and then, she’s gone.

He can feel the strain in his hands from how hard he’s been gripping his goblet, the tension in his jaw is so taut he feels it will snap any second. And he along with it. 

“Well that was interesting. I’ve never seen Betty anything but the epitome of composure,” Veronica muses while stepping away from the table. 

Jughead snorts. “That’s because she’s made of fucking ice.”

“That is quite enough about my cousin,” Cheryl snaps, eyes locked on him as if she were trying to bore something into his soul. Her head swings toward Veronica and then toward the still unnamed blue Ryder, who sighs heavily while refitting his helm. “We should also head back. There’s still much to prepare. If you choose to fly with us then be at the Bunker’s sparring grounds at Oriens-break.”

The whole table, including the remaining lapdogs, groans.

“We meet at first rise, or we _will_ find new Syrpents to tandem,” Cheryl regards each of them coolly before she affixes her helm and saunters away.

“Oh, we are so fucked,” Sweet Pea raises a hand to summon the barkeep. They’re all going to need at least another drink—or two—to make it through this night.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am not spiraling,” he grits out, though it sounds more like a growl than actual words, before taking a deep breath and trying again. “Every single one of us has had a problem controlling our magic when emotional.”
> 
> Toni’s mouth falls open to respond when they hear the distinct approach of beating wings and a hushed and reverent “wow” is all she manages instead. Circling the yard, shining bright vermillion in the hazy glow of the rising sun, is the largest dragon Jughead Jones has ever seen. Cheryl and her beast gracefully descend from the skies, dust blowing off the old cobbles with every beat of leathery wings. 
> 
> “Ah, Syrpents, I knew you’d all be here,” her voice still booms over the thunderous sound. 
> 
> Jughead rolls his eyes as the taloned feet hit the ground. The mighty red dragon lands with a gentle grace that one wouldn’t expect out of such a monstrous creature. Lowered on all fours, the giant stretches its long neck, taking in each of them with ancient eyes before stopping at Toni, a small puff of smoke fuming from its massive snout.

The Syrpents gather in the courtyard of the Bunker’s largest training area. Toni and Jughead, not morning people by any means, had the foresight to brew draught of jav, which they currently sip from misshapen bronze mugs while Fangs and Sweet Pea are desperate trying just to keep their eyes open.

“Did that actually happen? Are you sure we didn’t just drink too much at Pop’s?” Sweet Pea groans as the sun starts to peek over the hills. 

“Oh, no, it was definitely real. Otherwise, Toni wouldn’t be wearing face dew and Jones wouldn’t be shaking in his boots,” Fangs winks, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs. 

But then Toni turns abruptly away from him. “What _was_ that yesterday? I thought you’d gotten a handle on the Sweep.”

Jughead looks up to find three sets of concerned eyes boring into him. Up until now, it had been years since he'd been Swept. 

Though his foresight is best used to determine an attacker’s pattern, he mostly just reads people—the most basic of feelings—and he's usually in control. He doesn't react. Period. It’s what makes him so good at what he does. He’s managed to suppress so much, for so long, that his cool and cunning have greatly served his advance within the Syrpent ranks. 

“I do! Or, at least I did,” he drinks the last of his jav and places the empty mug on a nearby post. “I was caught unawares.” (What he doesn’t say is that history has proven Betty will always have this effect on him.)

“You’ll be caught ‘unawares’ more often than not in combat, Jonesy. I haven’t seen you spiral—”

“I am not spiraling,” he grits out, though it sounds more like a growl than actual words, before taking a deep breath and trying again. “Every single one of us has had a problem controlling our magic when emotional.”

Toni’s mouth falls open to respond when they hear the distinct approach of beating wings and a hushed and reverent “wow” is all she manages instead. Circling the yard, shining bright vermillion in the hazy glow of the rising sun, is the largest dragon Jughead Jones has ever seen. Cheryl and her beast gracefully descend from the skies, dust blowing off the old cobbles with every beat of leathery wings. 

“Ah, Syrpents, I _knew_ you’d all be here,” her voice still booms over the thunderous sound. 

Jughead rolls his eyes as the taloned feet hit the ground. The mighty red dragon lands with a gentle grace that one wouldn’t expect out of such a monstrous creature. Lowered on all fours, the giant stretches its long neck, taking in each of them with ancient eyes before stopping at Toni, a small puff of smoke fuming from its massive snout. 

Cheryl disengages her harness and steps out onto a wing as behind her the blue and purple dragons touch down in the courtyard. She’s lowered to the ground, the steel spurs on her boots clank heavily against the old stones as she stalks toward him and his friends. Cheryl stands in front of Toni, suddenly flanked by both Veronica in glittering amethyst and the still unnamed blue Ryder. 

“Your presence is required in the scells, Jones,” she flicks her hand in a shooing gesticulation, not even bothering to meet his eyes.

“What? I don’t even get to see the dragon I’m supposed to be flying on in action? That’s not suspicious at all,” Jughead pushes off the pillar he’s been leaning against and pulls at the brim of his old knitted cap as the Ryders unmask. 

The male Ryder steps into his space. “I would think very long and hard about the next words out of your mouth.” 

Jughead senses both Sweet Pea and Fangs step to his side, his jaw twitches and they seem to ease. “I don’t think that’s a threat you’re in any position to make,” he feels an eyebrow raise and a smirk pull the corner of his lip upward.

“Stand down, Kevin. For once that ridiculous anger isn’t misplaced,” Cheryl’s hardened features soften for just a second before she flicks her hand and Kevin steps away. “All of us in the know understand that it’s going to take some time for your situation to be...agreeable. So, you two are on your own.”

“Cheryl!” Toni’s dangerously low voice grinds out. “Do you really think it wise that they’ll be completely unsupervised?”

“From what I’m to understand, we need not worry about any”— Veronica steps out from behind Cheryl and stands at her side, fingertips skimming over her armor and down her arm— “lewd behavior.”

He watches Toni’s eyes steel. “I wasn’t concerned about decency. More like one, or both of them, still being alive when this terrible social experiment ends.”

“Okay,” his hands run over his weary face, feeling the pinch between his eyes and the tell-tale tingle at the base of his neck that never bodes well for anybody. He exhales and starts again. “I realize why everyone is worried but it’s really not necessary. We’re both adults, and if she can handle us being alone together, then so can I.”

He pushes through the Ryders, even though they call he refuses to turn back. Not to see the smirk on Cheryl’s face, the confusion on Veronica and Kevin’s and the resignation painted on the faces of his friends. 

Something hovers in the air, a kind of weighted _knowingness_ that follows his descent. He tries to shake it off, but it only serves to sink deeper into his bones. It shouldn’t get to him, not after this much time and distance, but that kind of searing, incendiary pain isn’t something one easily forgets. He’s managed to keep his mind from following that particular path of what-ifs thus far. Too much hangs in the balance to get stuck in such a refrain.

Jughead takes a deep breath and mutters a quiet incantation, anything to stifle the static that hums beneath his skin. The buzz subsides, slightly, but the burn remains. It never goes away. It lingers, just under the surface, always, and he’s not sure if he’s more afraid of it combusting or extinguishing. 

This time he successfully shakes the thoughts from his head and focuses on the task at hand, even if those two trains of thought are one in the same, he tucks away that what-if chorus to be revisited at a later date and time. 

He’s lighter on his feet than he has any right to be, hardly making a sound in the tunnels as he makes his way toward the scells. The closer he gets to his destination the more he feels he’d rather turn around and head back for the courtyard, admit defeat before he even starts. And he’s ready to do just that until he hears it.

Her voice seems to waft through the dank space, it warms him like spiced mead; it catches and propels him forward. He hates every second of it. It reminds him of a time that seems so long ago now, when everything had been going so well, when the future was a bright, beautiful thing instead of the dour din that seemed to pervade his every waking moment. _(what if...what if...what if…)_

His feet lead him to the scell—to her—of their own volition. He stops at the gate and watches as she runs her hands over the ancient Emharald dragon. She’s smiling, still singing even when she notices him leaning against the wall. The breath catches in her throat and her final note comes out in a tremulous whisper.

“Ju—Forsythe.” He catches the moment it clicks, the recognition in her eyes; it looks almost painful as she swallows it down.

“Elizabeth.” Her eyes are like green fire burning in the dark, a fire he can’t look away from. “Please, don’t let me get in the way of your routine. I’m only here because I was instructed to be.”

She nods curtly. “Tahk suffered a wing injury about a year ago. He still flies just fine but we try not to overexert him,” patting the dragon affectionately, she steps out from under his massive neck. “Yesterday was a long day in the sky, and we were both very tired when we landed. Cheryl’s penchant for posturing is, of course, very Cheryl, but he didn’t need the extra flight time. You’ll see him in action soon enough.”

She looks so much smaller out of her formal armor. Always in green though, a moss colored linen tunic is tied around her waist with a braid of leather the same forrest hue as her leggings. It looks soft and warm and everything she’s not anymore. 

“I knew it was you. As soon as I saw Cheryl I knew you had to be with her,” he tries not to sound as choked by the anger as he feels. The clench in her jaw tells him he’s failing. Turns out he’s not too upset about that.

He can feel her eyes on him, reading him, appraising him. He hates that he now feels small under her gaze when it used to feel like he was her whole world. And deep under the spell of young love, he’d believed it, had seen her in the same light. It’s what still simmers in blood, the sizzle and hum of an energy uniquely Betty that he just cannot shake. No matter how unceremoniously blindsided by reality he had been, he can’t get the thought of her and those long lost days out of his head.

“Why, because I left the Southlands when she did?” She picks a large metal loop off the ground and backs away from him. 

“Where else would you have been?” Jughead mocks a questioning glance at her and grabs at a bare scrap of wood leaning against the wall. “Oh, that’s right, you got secreted off in the middle of the night to be with your betrothed,” he drops to the ground, back against the stonewall, and pulls a knife from his boot. It springs to life with a flick of his thumb, and for a moment he feels in control.

Her eyes roll as she slides the descaling tool over the dragon’s side. The old, molting scales fall onto the blanket she’d had the foresight to lay down before starting. They hit rough hewn wool with a clatter that grates at him from the inside. “Sure, whatever. If thinking that’s what happened allows you a good night’s rest then far be it from me to disillusion you. But it might be useful to know that I’ve only been with the Lapidaries a few months.”

He stops whittling at the would-be staff for a moment before the long, smooth strokes start up again, with just a skosh more aggression. “I find that hard to believe.”

“And nothing about _that_ surprises me,” Betty pauses her ministrations and sets her eyes on him. “First, Cheryl asked me to join when her last Green didn’t work out. After all, you can’t very well have a gemstone battalion and skip colors. As much as she wishes it not to be, the Lapidary units are still highly politicized, and even with my ‘unfortunate circumstances’ I was a suitable replacement. Second, you’d have known that wasn’t the case if you’d just asked me that night instead of running away like a scared whipsit!”

“What exactly should I have asked you? ‘When’s the binding ceremony?’” He can feel the scowl settle on his face. Was he supposed to be feeling badly that she had a secret fiance the entire time they were…”Huh, you know I just realized it never even mattered, because we were never a _real_ thing. We were just warm bodies occupying the same space and time.”

There’s a part of him that wishes the landed blow would warrant more than just the flash behind her eyes, but deep down he knows it’s not the last he plans to throw her way. He has an arsenal of bombardments born from buried hurt. He may be able to silence the world, but he can never escape the thoughts in his own head. 

But time and space are no man’s friend, and in the dank cave, looking at her for the first time in years without the blinders of young love or secret magics, the pain sears like a brand. There’s inherent strength in her stance (despite also looking ready to bow under some invisible weight) tempered by a cruel smirk (the kind she always used for fighting), and it’s all these little things that make him realize no matter how much he wants to hate her, he just... _can’t._

However, that does not mean he won’t make it _feel_ like he does

Betty snorts a mirthless laugh. “Oh, okay, clearly it meant _nothing,_ and that’s why we’re having the _very_ civil conversation we currently are.”

The hum in his blood still felt tamped but the burn intensified. “Maybe you’re right, but I can tell you right now that it wasn’t worth it.”

“You know what? Fuck you, Forsythe. It’s been three years, and you STILL can’t admit that your petty jealousy—”

The piece of wood, now barely more than a splinter, falls to the ground with a dull clatter as Tahk looks towards him and narrows it’s molten eyes. “In your dreams, Elizabeth.”

“No, in my dreams you’re always man enough to tell me how you feel, good or bad—instead of simpering away like a maimed dogerel when things get more complicated than you can handle.”

Jughead stands, finger wagging in her direction, when he notices the tendrils of vapor pouring from Tahk’s snout. He lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a snarl and grunt as his hand drops back to his side. “I don’t need this. I don’t want to fly that badly. I don’t _need_ to be a Ryder...especially not if I have to take to the skies with the likes of you. Looks like your last tandem felt the same, unless it was your husband who gave you that scar.”

He knows he went too far before the last of the words fly from his lips. There’s a sharp intake of breath followed by a deep, guttural hiss, Tahk’s neck snapping back to pin him between the wall and the poison sludge dripping from its teeth.

“Leave it. He’s not worth it,” Betty’s words are as cold and venomous as the dragon’s breath. His eyes catch hers as she stands in front of the dragon. They glow in the torchlight, tears sitting on the lashes but refusing to spill over. Tahk looks him up and down, through him, and turns its majestic head back to its master. “You can go now, Forsythe. We’re done for today.”

“It’s barely dawn, Elizabeth. What would you have me do with the rest of my day?” 

“Honestly, I could not care less.” The muscle in his jaw clenches three times before he leans down and retrieves what’s left of his staff and hightails it the fuck out of the scell.

Jughead does not leave as quietly as he came. Instead, he stomps around the yard cursing everything and everyone under the twin moons, but mostly just himself. He knows he was in the wrong. He would never say that, to anyone, but something about her brings out those dark and cold places and forces them to see the light of day.

He tries not to think about how it felt the day she left the training grounds—how small she looked when the night sky swallowed her up as she flew away, his tattered heart stowed away in her rucksack as he lay broken and beaten on the ground. 

The door to his room nearly flies off its hinges as it swings open. He throws himself on his bed and wills his eyes to close, fighting off glimpses of memories and feelings that linger on his skin. Sleep eventually finds him,filled with dreams of her.

Jughead wakes around mids-day to the glaring sun. The silence in the Bunker reminds him that, once again, he is all alone. Not that he would expect anyone to be back, workdays often went long into the evenings depending on what they were doing. He’s not even sure he wants to see his friends. There’ll be lots of questions and pitying stares and he’s not quite ready to deal with that kind of intrusion into thoughts he’s not willing to have in the company of others. 

But have them he must. They scratch and claw at the back of his head, and he has no choice but to try and reconcile all the anxieties of the last few days. 

Groaning, Jughead rolls out of bed, trying to separate the mess of curls on his head with his fingers but is resigned to throwing his hat on when the bedhead wins. He tosses a few rolls of parchment into his sack along with his favorite quills and ink pot before heading out to find some solace on the cliffs.

It’s not too far from the Bunker, this clearing between ancient oaks and maples that creeps up nearly to the jagged edge of the cliff. It’s hidden from the outside world but allows him to see past the suffocating shores of Eldervair. 

Water crashes against the rocks below as he throws his bag onto the ground and sits cross-legged next to it. The scrolls fall out, rolling dangerously close to the edge, but his mind is already a lifetime away. 

He comes here often. In daylight he tries to sort his feelings out on the page, and the rise of the twin moons prompt him to use more magics. Every failure leaves him feeling more resentful of the self-inflicted gaps in his memory. The ink is supposed to help—it’s imbued with dragons’ tears after all—and _should_ reveal everything. But the words he writes are the ones he already knows.

He reads and rereads all the lies, the ones he knows like the back of his hand. How it was love, and it was real, and the future loomed just past the tips of their fingers like the stars. 

Until it wasn’t.

What he’d thought was stronger than the steel milled in northern mines turned out to be so fraught that it splintered under the slightest pressure. (He thought that being betrothed to someone else was more than _slight_ pressure but everyone else reminds him this is where he loses the plot.) 

He remembers the end, remembers every last detail from her outstretched hands to the way tears tracked down her cheeks and left splotchy stains on her tunic. Her voice was raw in his ears, feels raw on his skin all these years later, because though the sound of her voice was clear, the words he never heard. Jughead had met her in the woods, half a bottle of Faerish Fire burning in his blood, words of a curse lingering on his lips, and the words that fell from her lips on that night still hang around his throat like a tightening noose.

Arms wrap around knees and Jughead sighs a shaky kind of thing that probably sounds more like a sob. Because it is. The tears he’s tried so desperately to fight since seeing her spill and are instantly swallowed by the wind and waves. He lets them be taken, begs for the gods to carry the tears and the pain out to sea and sink them in the depths of the ocean. 

But the gods have always proved merciless. And that’s why the scars on his heart are more like brands. If the pain of losing her wasn’t enough, now it has to burn forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, without the incredible skills of one cattycooper, this would not exist. Her beta and gif work (did you see this magnificence?!) is beyond reproach but it's her friendship that I truly could not do without. What a human! 
> 
> Anyway, I would say that I'm sorry for the angst but we all know that would be a lie. It will get better (it will ALL get better)...just not today ;)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, to the amazing Cat, for her skills as beta and master gif maker! That header is just *chef's kiss* and you, are an absolute gem and I adore you for all you do, for all the help you so graciously bestow <3
> 
> Of course much love also going to Sarah because, without her, none of this would exist. She's the only reason that smut is readable; thank you for letting me pick your genius brain and helping me create words that actually make sense :)
> 
> Thank you to anyone who took the time to give this a try! Let me know what you think


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